When the church-village slumbers <br />And the last songs are sung, <br />When the grey mist arising, <br />Is o'er the marshes hung, <br />'Tis then the woods forsaking, <br />Their way cross country taking, <br />Nine howling wolves come hungering for food. <br /> <br />Behind the first,--the grey one,-- <br />Trot seven more of black, <br />Close on their hoary leader; <br />As rearguard of the pack <br />The red wolf limps, all bloody, <br />His paws with gore still ruddy <br />As after his companions grim he pants. <br /> <br />When through the village lurking <br />Nought gives them check or fright, <br />No watch dog dares to bellow, <br />The peasant ghastly white, <br />His breath can scarce be taking, <br />His limbs withhold from shaking-- <br />While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips! <br /> <br />About the church they circle <br />And softly slink away <br />To prowl about the priest's farm, <br />Then of a sudden they <br />Are round the drink shop turning, <br />Fain some bad word be learning-- <br />From peasants drinking noisily within. <br /> <br />With fully thirteen bullets <br />Thy weapon must be armed, <br />And with a wad of goat's hair; <br />Then thou wilt fight unharmed. <br />Fire calmly,--and before all <br />Will the leader, the grey, fall, <br />The rest will surely follow one by one. <br /> <br />When the cock wakes the village <br />From out its morning dream, <br />Thou wilt behold the corpses-- <br />Nine she-wolves by the stream! <br />On the right lies the grey one, <br />To left in frost the lame one-- <br />All bloody,--God pardon us sinners!<br /><br />Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wolves-2/
